


Vigilantes: Red and Blue

by ViolentMedic



Series: Vigilantes: Superhero!AU [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Gen, Gun Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 09:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4216491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolentMedic/pseuds/ViolentMedic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The city of Valhalla is unusual for the ridiculous amount of metahumans that live there: people who have developed superpowers. Most of these people live normal lives. Some fight crime. And of those who fight crime, there are two sorts: government-affiliated agents, or 'freelancers,' and illegal superheroes known as vigilantes.</p><p>Amongst the vigilantes out there, there are two teams. Red Team and Blue Team.</p><p>These teams are idiots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vigilantes: Red and Blue

**Author's Note:**

> This is the introduction fic to the Superhero!AU that I've had in my mind since... season 9? It's a long time coming. I'm going to do something similar to the Brothel!AU and compartmentalize it into short fics so I don't have as much pressure on updating. This one just functions mostly as an introduction to the universe.
> 
> They'll be pairings later, but this particular part is gen.
> 
> Note: Despite this covering primarily the members of Red and Blue Team, Church is not involved. That's a future story.

 

_Maroon and Orange_

 

“Hey.”

“Yeah.”

“You ever wonder why we're here?”

On top of a twenty-storey building, two men in silly costumes stood around and stared down at the city streets below.

The one who'd asked this question was a gangly, freckly Dutch-Irish man, though some—including his crime-fighting partner—insisted that he was of a Latino persuasion. His crime-fighting outfit might have been half-way decent—practical pants and a shirt, complete with thick gloves and reinforced boots—if he hadn't ruined the effect by wearing a puffy, maroon safety vest and a pair of thick goggles with tinted lenses. His vest had a ridiculous amount of pockets, crammed with all manner of weird technological thingamajigs that Sarge had pawned off on him.

The crime-fighting partner who pondered it was an overweight Hawaiian who wore unflattering tight clothes in a garish shade of orange, though the colour had also been called yellow, gold and 'like someone threw up and decided to make it a colour.' These clothes resembled that of a motorcycle racer, being built for warmth and protection against the wind, and the effect was complete with a motorcycle helmet—one with lightning bolts painted on it in bright yellow—so that he'd eat as few flies on the job as possible.

These two men were known to the world as the Maroon Mechanist and Orange Lightning. Though to each other they were more commonly known as 'kissass' (or Simmons) and 'fatass' (or Grif.)

“It's one of life's great mysteries, isn't it. Why are we here?” Grif said solemnly. “I mean, are we the product of some cosmic coincidence or is there really a God watching everything? You know, with a plan for us and stuff. I don't know man, but it keeps me up at night.”

Silence followed this observation. During that silence, Grif tossed his used cigarette off the edge of the building. Twenty storeys down, the man that Grif had been absently throwing cigarette butts on brushed it off with a grumble and decided to stand elsewhere.

“What?” Simmons said finally. “I meant why are we up here? On this building?”

“Oh, uh... yeah.”

“What was all that stuff about God?”

“Uh... hm? Nothing.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Seriously, though. Why are we here? I mean, yeah, we got a good view from up here,” Simmons said, peering over the edge of the building. “But say we spot a crime from up here. It'll take us valuable minutes just to get back down to the ground, during which either the criminals get away or the Freelancers get to them first.”

“Yep,” Grif agreed.

“So? Why we up here?”

“So we don't have to do anything. Duhhh.”

“God, could you be lazier?”

“Challenge accepted. Seriously, though, it's not like the Blues are any better than us. I don't know what Sarge is so worked up about. There's only two of them! That asshole ninja and—“

“And your sister?”

“Don't remind me. Besides, she doesn't do all that much crime-fighting. Mostly she keg-flips. Which I guess is better than punching people with guns. And Tu—”

“We're supposed to use codenames,” Simmons interrupted.

“Even for the Blues?”

“I don't know, it's some kind of 'vigilante code' that Sarge was babbling on about.”

“Whatever. Anyway, 'Teal Handsomeness,' the fucking douchebag supreme with the dumbest name I've ever heard, all he does is jump rooftops like a tool.” Grif paused, before saying, “Why is it called Blue Team? Only one of them is blue!”

Simmons ignored that last question. “That means it's our chance to swoop in and stop the crimes ourselves! Come on, Orange Lightning! Or should I just call you Lazy Lightning?”

“You should. It has a better ring to it. It's not like your name makes sense, either. You don't do shit with machines. Not superpowered shit, anyway.”

“Sarge said it had to sound like I was his sidekick,” Simmons said mournfully.

“Look, we ain't gonna do shit compared to the Freelancers. Sarge just doesn't want to quit. We should. We'd actually get paid for it if we applied with the government.”

“Quiet down, dirtbags! And no traitor talk on our airspace!” Sarge's voice yelled through their headsets, making both Grif and Simmons wince. Simmons reached up to touch his on instinct, while Grif just grumbled under his breath.

“This area is clear, Red Sarge!” Simmons said, while Grif rolled his eyes. “What can we do for you, sir?”

“Code Red, men!”

“All our codes are red,” Grif grumbled.

“Well, I can't remember all the colours that Pink Power put in place! Uh... Code Crimson? Code Cherry?”

“Code Crimson's kinda intense. Code Cherry means we can go home. Is it Code Cherry?” Grif asked, looking hopeful.

“Goddammit, Grif. There's a bank robbery going on two blocks away, why are we arguing about shades of red?” Sarge roared. “All reds are red, it's good enough!”

“Bank robbery? Nearest bank?” Simmons asked.

“That's the place, Mechanist. Get cracking!”

“Yes, sir!” Simmons looked around, then pointed north-west. “That way. Grif, gimme a lift. We're not gonna make it otherwise.”

“Fuck that. I thought you said you could fly.”

“That's, uh... a process that needs refinement.”

“So you don't use your telekinesis shit to accidentally throw yourself out the window like you did with last night's pizza? You owe me a pizza, by the way.”

“My aim was a little off, shut up. We're wasting time!”

“Ugh. Okay, okay.” Grif bent down slightly and allowed Simmons to awkwardly climb onto his back. “Piggyback rides it is.”

“Yeah, I know, I know. Stairs are—“

“Fuck the stairs.”

“What? Oh, no, no, no, I don't wanna—aaaaaaaah!”

Grif had taken two steps back, then charged forward and jumped off the edge of the building. They went sailing past several windows in the next building (causing one office worker to shriek and spill coffee on his new pants) until Grif landed feet-first on the ground. This naturally would have meant death for anyone else. Even for Grif it mildly ached. But, being that running at the speed of a monorail was considered a lazy stroll for him, he had pretty damn strong legs. Without even stopping for a breath, he started running towards the bank. He outstripped several cars in seconds.

“Now why the hell would I take the stairs when I can listen to you shriek like a little girl?” Grif yelled, grinning.

“Oh, shut up, Grif, it's not like—hrrk!” Simmons cut off in the middle of shouting with a choking noise. Grif immediately skidded to a half and pulled Simmons off him.

“Woah, woah, what the hell happened? Are you alright?” he asked with actual concern that he'd deny under normal circumstances.

“I-I swallowed a f-fly,” Simmons choked out.

“...You idiot.”

With the delay caused by Simmons and his bug mishap, they were too late to even see the fight at the bank. By the time they arrived, the criminals were being shoved into a police car. Except for one who was bleeding from the shoulder and being packed into an ambulance.

“What do you think? Freelancers?” Grif muttered.

“It's always freelancers.” Simmons scrunched his nose up, looking at the bleeding criminal. “Freelancers don't use guns. If that's a bullet wound—“

“South. Man, we do not want to get caught by her. North's cool with us, but I swear all the Freelancer chicks got something up their asses about all this vigilante crap.”

“Good idea, let's go. What now?”

“Lunch time? You can buy me that pizza you owe.”

“Fatass.”

“Hey, I burn a lot of carbs when I run.”

“And yet you still manage to stay overweight. How?”

“Skill.”

 

* * *

 

The city of Valhalla was not a pleasant place to live, in some respects. It was very noisy, and public property got destroyed a lot. But it did have one thing going for it. It had the lowest crime rate in America. ...Okay, that wasn't quite true. Crime happened, same as anywhere else, it was just stopped extremely quickly. This was due to the large amount of metahumans that lived in the city.

Of course, most of these were just regular people who happened to have superpowers. Anyone with superpowers qualified as a 'metahuman,' whether it be super strength or being able to read minds or even something as mundane or useless as pissing acid. The majority led mundane lives. Most kept their powers secret, using them behind closed doors. Some used them to turn a profit while still staying inconspicuous. Like a woman who could turn items into gold, who started up a small jewelery shop by purchasing the cheap plastic rings from toy vending machines. There were a few who showed them to the world, provided their powers weren't terrifying enough to cause concern.

But of course, once superpowers started cropping up so did superheroes. Time was, anyone could throw on a costume and start fighting crime, because there were simply no laws to say 'you can't shoot ice from your fingertips at a bank robber.' No-one was really sure if superheroes had been invented in fiction and inspired the real superpowered people to fight crime, or whether it had been the other way around. But superheroes had been common for the last few decades.

In practice, though, a lot of them had caused more problems than they stopped, particularly where collateral damage was concerned. Nowadays, there was a lot of legislation outlawing such activity unless one registered with the government first.

So there were those who did. Government-affiliated metahumans who operated as agents of an elite fighting force under Director Leonard L. Church, head of the Department of Metahuman Regulation and Research. Valhalla was centered around his headquarters, the Mother of Invention. Biggest metahuman research facility in the country, and the center of regulative activity.

A few of the metahumans who didn't want to comply with being ruled by the government derided these government soldiers as sell-outs just looking for a paycheck rather than fighting crime for good ol' justice. As an insult, they called them Freelancers, but the name became so widely used that eventually the government sanctioned metahumans started using it themselves.

But there were still those who operated outside the government. Now that they were illegal, people called them vigilantes. Since they weren't registered with the government, they got no money, no respect and if they caused collateral damage then that was just added to their criminal record. Essentially, they had all of the work with none of the benefits.

Many wondered why they even bothered.

 

* * *

 

_Pink (Lightish Red)_

 

Even in a city filled to the brim with people who called themselves crimefighters, there were still all sorts of petty criminals. Like the pair of muggers pointing their guns at the tourist who had, with great foresight, wandered into a dark alleyway because he thought it was shortcut.

“Alright, asshole. Hand over whatever you got on you and you walk away with no bullet holes,” the first mugger said, waving the gun around wildly. He and the other mugger were too focused on their mark, and didn't notice the swooshing sound behind them until another voice spoke.

“How rude. Don't you have any class? Or any better phrases? I would have said 'unload a few rounds into your ass.' More pizzazz.”

Both the muggers turned. The tourist ran away the moment their attention was gone. Maybe they would have just glanced, except that the man who'd spoken to them was quite the sight. Vivid pink leotard, white boots that went up to his mid-thigh, sequins on his domino mask and a cape that seemed to be made largely out of chantilly lace. The garish outfit clashed with his serious 'you have broken the law and you must pay the price' expression.

The muggers did what most would do in this situation. They cracked up laughing.

“You've got to be kidding me,” one of them choked out in between the laughter. “I knew there were some weirdos 'fighting crime' in this city but—“

“Fighting crime is my job. And it'll be much easier on us all if you drop your guns and let me put you in handcuffs. Play along like the good, little boys you'll wish you were, huh?” He was clearly trying to sound stern. It sounded put-on.

“Yeah, right. You made us lose our quarry, so maybe we'll just—“

The mugger had been waving his gun around as he spoke. Maybe because his body was still shaking from laughter, he moved wrong and the gun went off. Sending a bullet right into the chest of the pink vigilante. He toppled over.

“...Oh my god. Oh my god, you killed him,” the second mugger said. “Dude, you said we weren't going to kill anyone!”

“It's not my fault! I... oh, shit. Okay, uh... no-one knows we were here—“

“What about that tourist dude?”

“Fuck the tourist guy, like he was paying attention—“

“You. Fucking. Assholes.”

They went silent. The pink man was getting up. He looked in pain, but more like the pain from when one stubbed their toe, rather than got shot point-blank in the chest. He also looked pissed off.

“Do you know... how long it takes to get blood out of this? Lightish red and whites! How! Dare! You!” He lashed out and kicked the shooter right in the junk with a shiny, white gogo boot. “I'd sue you for the laundry bills if I didn't have to keep my identity secret, you tacky blanket!”

Donut, though more commonly known as Pink Power no matter how many times he insisted it was Lightish-Red Power, kicked him a few times while he was on the ground, eventually remembering to kick the gun away. He whirled around to face the other mugger, cape swishing dramatically. It also gave the mugger a good view of the hole in his chest. It was still oozing, but the muscles seemed to be visibly knitting back together, and new skin was growing over it. Donut looked down and swore quietly.

“Goddammit, could you have been ruder... You!” He pointed at the other mugger. “Drop the gun or I kick you in the junk.”

The second mugger sensibly dropped the gun.

“Good. I'm going to handcuff you both to a pipe or something and call 911. Behave or I swear by all the crockpot recipes in the world that I will find a way to make this even worse for you.”

“Yes, sir,” the other mugger said meekly.

Donut left his good, sturdy and (sadly) his fluffiest handcuffs behind. He didn't want to stick around until the real superheroes came by. He didn't want to get arrested, or to explain the amount of blood now decorating his bodysuit. So he left the two criminals chained to a pipe and headed back to base.

God, he hated being shot. Sure, most people probably would have died, so better him than anyone else. But he always healed too fast to get the bullets removed. Even if Sarge could remove them quickly, that alone was like getting shot again. Could be worse, he supposed. He could be dead. Or dying. Or it could have hit his heart or something he couldn't function without and left him in the morgue until someone removed it. God, did he not want to do that again.

Ugh. He hated bullets. He hated bullets so much. He missed arrows. Arrows could be pulled out easier.

The little headset hooked around his ear went off, followed by Sarge's voice.

“Did I hear some difficulty, Pink Power?”

Donut had given up correcting Sarge.

“I got shot in the chest.”

“Do I need to organize a raid of the morgue?”

“No... I don't think it hit anything that'll stop me... it hurts like a bitch, though. I should probably report back to base.”

“Ten-four, Pink Power. I'll prep the alcohol. Unless you can pick up something that'll knock your lights out on the way back. Or do you want to do it the quicker way?”

“...Quicker. Streets aren't going to patrol themselves. Also I need new handcuffs.”

There was a sigh on the other end of the radio. “I'm not adding the fluff.”

“Aww, but Saaaaaarge—“ Donut whined.

“...Alright, fine. I'll add the goshdarn fluff. If you tell me which of our codes was for high-level emergencies. Bank robbery level.”

“Code Vermillion.”

“What in sam hell is vermillion?”

“The colour of emergencies. Duh.”

 

* * *

 

_Red and Brown_

 

“I tell you, Lopez. This is going to be glorious. Finally, all those criminals will cower in terror! Because nothing is more terrifying than a giant mecha suit!”

“ _It's impractical. It's slow. It'll make it easier for the freelancers to catch up with you._ ”

“You're right, Lopez! It will be the crime-fighting event of the century.”

“ _I will weigh it down and hope it traps you forever, so that I will not have to listen to this._ ”

Sarge grinned at the set of mechanized armor he was working on. Of course, he could make this sort of armor quite easily on his own. All he'd have to do is shape the metal with a few off-hand thoughts, then animate the machinery up. But what was the point of making a set of mechanized death armor if he did it the lazy way? He'd be no better than Grif.

Also, robots that he animated up with his powers always tended to be a little... twitchy. Which was part of the fun, of course! But not for his death armor.

Lopez was on the other side of the room, idly working on the Warthog. Lopez had no superpowered ability with machines, but he was excellent where cars were concerned nonetheless. And every superhero team needed a car. A car with sharp tusks. And, one day, a gun on the top. Sarge wanted one that shot lasers. Still, no-one seemed to spend more time around that car than Lopez.

“Now... where's the red paint. Everyone knows that painting something red makes it go faster.”

“ _That's ridiculous._ ”

“Ah, there it is. Thank you for pointing it out, Lopez!”

Sarge picked up the can of red paint from the shelf, but the moment he did the can became heavy. What should have only been a few pounds at most suddenly felt like it weighed as much as a small airplane. Sarge was pulled forward until he was bending over, trying to drag this tiny bucket of paint across the floor.

“Lopez! This isn't the time for your pranks!”

Lopez ignored him, although he had a small smirk on his face.

“Lopez, you lighten this paint tin right now!”

“ _Maybe later._ ”

Sarge grumbled under his breath. Sometimes Lopez's superpower was useful. It made moving heavy death robots so much easier when one's superpower was density manipulation. But occasionally, Lopez thought it was funny to make essential objects so heavy that no-one could move them.

Sometimes Sarge wondered how he'd got saddled with this team. Red was just in the blood, he supposed. Can't choose who you share blood with.

Simmons was a good soldier, but all his imagination went into arguing with Grif. Grif was... well, Grif. Not a day went by when Sarge hoped that some supervillain would swoop down with a giant laser and make an example out of him. Lopez was a decent fella, but sometimes his rascally pranks went too far and no-one could understand his constant Spanish. Donut was useful, but not so much out in the field, where his skills extended primarily to not dying after being shot. He was crafty, though. Largely financed their little operation. Sarge asked how, and Donut would always start chattering about antiques.

Still, sometimes Sarge missed the old days. Old teams. He'd been on many old teams. He'd been a superhero—or a 'vigilante' as he was called now—since he was a teenager. Quite a few decades ago, that had been. Nowadays, it was getting harder and harder to find people willing to fight the good fight instead of selling out to the government.

Sarge grumbled under his breath as he returned to tinkering with his death armor, while watching the news on the television out of the corner of his eye. Always good to know what crime was happening in the world, head starts and all that.

Sarge was working on the elbow joint when he heard a clanging noise at the front door. Of course, door was a strong term. It was actually a solid metal wall that stopped people from getting into Sarge's basement without his permission. The knocking sound was barely audible.

“What's the password?” Sarge roared back.

“Password. Let me in!”

Lopez grumbled under his breath.

If they knew the password, there was no chance of liars. Sarge nodded to himself and spared a glance at the solid metal wall. The metal immediately split open and slithered off to the side, spreading open enough to admit Donut into the building. Once Donut had crossed the threshold, it shwooped right back into place.

Sarge glanced at the blood covering the front of Donut's costume. “So, you bring anesthetic, you want a jug of pina colada first, or do you want this over and done with?” he grunted.

“Over and done—JESUS CHRIST,” Donut screamed midway through the sentence. Sarge had raised a hand and called the metal in the bullet, and it had immediately headed for him. Which meant blasting itself out of Donut again. Donut doubled over, clutching his chest. “You could have warned me!”

“Hesitation is for Blues.” The blood-coated, squashed bullet flew into Sarge's hand obediently, and Sarge held it close to his eye. “It's a wussy bullet, anyway. Cheap handgun. They could have at least gotten something with style if they were going for murder.” Sarge looked over the bullet at Donut, who was still curled up. “You alright there, buttercup?”

“Gimme a couple of minutes,” Donut hissed.

Sarge observed him with mild concern. “You don't run out of power eventually, do you? Maybe there's a limit. Science would probably have the answer. Mad science, naturally.”

Donut pulled a face. “I haven't 'run out' yet.”

“Maybe it's like old age. Get to your forties and suddenly you can't run or see or fornicate as well as you once could. Just because you're young—say, what age are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

“...Didn't you tell me that five years ago?”

“So, you seen the Blues around at all?” Donut asked. “Tucker was asking me about updating his costume to make it easier to remove or something. He said trying to remove that much spandex in a hurry was killing his chances with the ladies.”

“Haven't seen squat. Those Blues might as well be running for cover! ...Well, running for cover as we fight the same enemies, admittedly, but running for cover and fearing the power of Red nonetheless!”

Donut had stopped listening midway through Sarge talking. His attention was caught by the news. There was a man on the screen. A man with greying hair and a goatee. The Director of the Department of Metahuman Regulation and Research, Dr. Leonard Church. Leading authority on metahumans everywhere, despite not being one himself.

Donut reached for the remote, but Sarge waved him away. “Don't be getting blood on my remote.” He picked it up himself with his clean hand and turned the volume up.

“—vigilantes are a menace to our society at large, causing collateral damage and not facing up to the problems they cause with their anonymity. That's to say nothing of those who are actively trying to use their abilities for evil. The Metahuman Registration Act is a necessary precaution against these criminals.”

“He stole the idea from X-Men,” Sarge grumbled.

“What is more important? The privacy of a small subsection of our society, or the safety of society as a whole? In prioritizing privacy, we are disregarding the greater good. And we are disregarding the well-being of metahumans. How can we properly research and aid them if they will not show themselves? How can we tell if someone needs help with their abilities? Do we just wait until they have a meltdown and destroy a city block and themselves?”

“Ain't no idea from a comic book that's ever worked. They'll never vote it in,” Sarge said confidently.

“This wouldn't be the first country to,” Donut mumbled.

“But this is America! And America's all about freedom.”

Donut did not look reassured. Nor did Lopez, who grumbled more in Spanish as he messed around with the Warthog's engines.

 

* * *

 

_Teal_

 

The Reds weren't the only ones who had a preference for rooftops. If one looked up in the evenings they would see a teal figure sprinting about, jumping the gaps between rooftops. The outfit bore some vague resemblance to that of a ninja, consisting of the scarf, hood and face mask combo. The stealth implied by a ninja outfit was ruined by the fact that the outfit consisted of a bright teal and some whites, as well as the fact that said 'ninja' was making audible 'whoosh' noises with his mouth as he jumped rooftops.

This was Tucker's usual evening routine. To be honest, Tucker, or Teal Handsomeness as he liked to be known as, didn't fight that much crime. He could. He would if he actually saw any. He was a badass with powers, all EM spectrums and shit, why wouldn't he fight crime?

But really, he was mostly in it for acting awesome. That's why he'd never officially signed up with the government. They wore serious faces and outfits and got the job done with no drama. They were basically glorified cops. Boring. Vigilantes got the cool uniforms and the chicks, and they got to run around on rooftops.

Tucker jumped the gap between a couple of apartment buildings, doing a dramatic roll as he landed, before approaching the edge of the building and looking at the sunset peeking through the larger skyscrapers in the distance. He flicked his scarf over his shoulder so that the evening breeze would blow it behind him in a suitably badass way.

Yeah, standing up there like a badass teal ninja was the fucking life.

And it was ruined because it turned out there was a guy sitting on the rooftop with him, and he'd been too caught up in looking awesome that he hadn't noticed there was actually someone watching.

“Hello!”

Tucker almost fell off the rooftop. Once he'd regained his composure, he turned around to see a guy sitting in the corner, near where a door led down into the apartments below. This huge, freckled guy with a vacant expression in pale eyes. Sitting there in a hoodie with a smiley face on the front—god, it looked like it could have been made for a child if it wasn't the size of a small tent—watching Tucker.

“What?” Tucker snapped.

“Are you a superhero?”

“Fuck yeah, I'm a superhero. Prefer the term vigilante, though. It sounds way more badass.”

“My parents were superheroes. But they were not good at it.” The guy frowned slightly. “I would like to be a superhero.”

“Yeah, I get that all the time. But gotta be awesome to be a superhero.”

“I know. I am not allowed.”

“Well, that's a bitch move. Who said you weren't allowed?”

“My big brother said no. He said maybe I could if I talked to the scary man from the Mama of Inventors.”

The Mother of Invention? That meant this kid's brother had wanted him to go through the official channel. Become an agent instead of a vigilante. That probably meant he actually had powers. Tucker frowned before walking over and sitting down near the guy.

“You want to be an agent? A freelancer?”

“No. I do not like the Mama of Inventors.”

“Yeah? Any reason why? I've never been in there, is it boring? Sounds boring.”

“...I was not looking.” The kid wrapped his arms around himself like he was cold, frowning deeper. “I did not like it there. I felt like I lost a thing, except then I checked my pockets after I left and I had not dropped anything.” He brightened up immediately after saying this. “They let my big brother fight crime. Even though he has no magic. He is smart and he's really nice. His name is Washington now! It is not his real name, but he likes the name so I call him that now.”

Tucker snorted. “Sounds like a dumb name to me.”

“Do you do special powers? Can I see?”

“Sure thing!” Tucker liked showing off. “You wanna see my sword?”

“Yes! Swords are good!”

Tucker took a couple of steps back before flicking his arm out. As he did, his favourite weapon formed in his hand. A blue weapon with two prongs that didn't honestly look much like a sword at all, but that was what Tucker had always called it. It seemed to be made entirely out of light. Everything Tucker made was like that. It wasn't the only weapon he could make, but it always came to mind first.

Truth be told, it wasn't really a weapon at all. Only a lightshow. But it looked impressive.

The guy's eyes lit up as he stared at it. He reached out to touch it, but his fingers passed right through it. He pulled his hands back and wiggled his fingers.

“It's tingly!” he said happily.

“It'd do more than tingle if I wanted it to.” Tucker made it vanish again. “I can also see through stuff. X-ray vision, y'know? And I can pick up radio signals and shit. Because it's on the EM spectrum or something? I dunno.” It felt nice to brag, especially since this kid looked so genuinely impressed.

“Really? Can you tell what I ate for dinner?”

“...Well, not if you've already eaten it, it's probably mush.”

“Aww.”

“Well, uh...” Tucker coughed before puffing out his chest and saying, “Duty calls! Bad guys to punch, chicks to pick up, you know how it goes.”

“YOU GET TO PICK UP BABY CHICKENS, TOO?” the guy yelled happily. “I want to be a vigil ant!”

“Vigilante. Hey, if you wanna do it, man. Just go for it. But uh... there's kind of laws against it and stuff.”

“Laws? Then why do you do it?”

“Because duty and justice, motherfucker. You saying I should let some dumbass laws hold back all this?” Tucker gestured at himself and his teal ninja-in-spandex ensemble. “Nah, fuck that noise. Anyway, I gotta run.”

“Okay. Bye, Tucker!”

Tucker had been about to jump to the next roof. If he'd been a second further into making the jump, he probably would have fallen to his death. Instead, he just made a strangled choking noise.

“How'd you know my name? Did I say that was my name?” Tucker asked, reaching up to tug his hood. The only part of his face visible was the eyes. How could he be recognised? Especially when the Reds wore fucking domino masks, goggles or no mask at all.

The guy just looked at him with confusion before saying, “That is your name, Tucker.”

“Ack, okay, okay, time out.” Tucker walked back to the guy. “You know what a secret identity is, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Tucker is my secret identity. Secret name. Which means you tell no-one about it. Especially not that agent brother of yours. Deal?”

“Okay!”

“And in exchange, you gotta tell me your name, in case you actually get involved with this vigilante stuff.”

“Oh! My name is Caboose! Michael J. Caboose!” Caboose reached out and shook Tucker's hand happily, crushing the fingers.

“Uh. Nice to meet you, dude.”

 

* * *

 

_Blue_

 

Once Tucker had left, Caboose trotted downstairs and back into the apartment that he and Wash lived in. He stopped only once on the way to his room, and that was to pat Apples. Apples and Cinnamon were his kitties, while Ari and Skyler belonged to Wash. Caboose was really good at feeding them all, though.

Wash was not there. He was doing special government work. He was very excited. He'd only been doing it for the last month. Caboose really wanted to help.

And now he could help! He could be a vigil ant! Like Tucker with his tinglies!

But superheroes needed costumes. Costumes that were colorful and had underwear on the outside. Although Tucker hadn't been wearing underwear on the inside. He'd just had a sock stuck in the crotch of his outfit. Caboose wondered why.

Caboose threw off his clothes and went through his drawers before retrieving a t-shirt and his favourite pair of kitty boxers. They were both blue. Caboose liked blue. He also put on some mittens and his sneakers. He picked up a plastic mask that he used to use to play cops and robbers with Wash, when Wash had time for it. He put that over his face. Then he stood in front of the mirror.

“...Oh my god. I am the best vigil ant.” Caboose struck a superman pose in front of the mirror and put on a deeper voice. “Hello, Mrs. Lady-Who-Needs-Help. I just rescued all the orphanages.” He put on a higher voice. “Thank you, Mr. Caboose. Now everyone will hug you.” He returned to the deeper voice. “Yay! I would like all the hugs!”

He frowned at the mirror, speaking normally again.

“No... you must have a special name. A secret name, like Tucker. You will have to be... mysterious. You are just a guy. A blue guy. You are Blue Guy.”

Caboose, soon to be known as Blue Guy to the general public, bounced in front of the mirror before hurrying out the door. He was going to fight crime and rescue people and it was going to be the best and then everyone would hug him.

 

* * *

 

When Wash got home at 3am in the morning he was really tired. Chasing criminals that were often superpowered themselves was a difficult job. It was made more the difficult because Wash, as an abnormality in a family filled with metahumans, didn't actually have any powers at all. The Councilor had given him a trial run to see if his powers were just dormant, but if they existed they were taking their sweet time.

He supposed it could be worse. At least he still had all his thinking abilities. Caboose had gotten powers, but his intelligence had declined at the same time. Some messed-up trade-off that was.

Despite how sleepy he was, Wash's first order of business was to make sure Caboose was asleep. Sometimes Caboose sat on the roof for too long and fell asleep up there, and sometimes he stayed up watching cartoons. Occasionally, he wandered off downstairs to go talk to the old lady who would sometimes give him cookies that tasted like they were as old as she was.

So when Wash opened Caboose's bedroom door and found that he wasn't there, he wasn't worried. But once he checked the rest of the apartment, the roof, and woke up the old woman downstairs to ask if she'd seen him... well, at that stage he was seriously worried.

“Caboose? CABOOSE?”

He checked the entire building, waking up almost everyone. No Caboose to be found. So Wash took to the streets, and as he did he called the friends who were still on duty. When there was no specific threat to be fought and it was outside of training hours, it was their job as agents of the Director to patrol the city. Some of them would still be out.

He managed to contact Maine and C.T just fine. He tried contacting South and asking her, but South ignored his call. And then, still dead tired, he went off to find Caboose.

Nothing for four hours. He called home every ten minutes, just in case Caboose had found his way back. Caboose tended to wander off, but he rarely went far and never so late. Wash's mind started putting forth all these horrible scenarios that could have happened. He was hit by a car. He got kidnapped. He had some kind of seizure. He fell off the roof. Scenario after scenario after scenario.

And then, at seven in the morning, Maine phoned Wash and said he found Caboose at the park. He seemed mildly amused for some reason, but Wash didn't stop to question why. He just headed right for the park and found Maine standing under a tree, looking up at the branches.

Caboose was stuck in a tree. He was sitting up on one of the branches halfway up, looking down at the ground with visible nervousness. He was dressed in the strangest assortment of clothing, including a pair of boxer shorts, and there was a cat sitting on the branch near him, waving its tail lazily.

“Caboose. Why are you up a tree?” Wash called out.

“...I am not Caboose.”

“You've insisted on being called Caboose since you were fourteen. Do you want to switch back to being Michael?”

“No. I am not Michael J. Caboose. I am Blue Guy.”

Maine let out a small huff that was his version of laughter.

“Caboose, that would work better if you weren't using your full name.”

“...I am not here.”

Wash sighed, crossing his arms. The worry was fading, to be replaced with frustration. He loved his little brother, but Caboose also had the ability to be frustrating like no-one else. And he really wanted to sleep.

“Just come down, okay?”

“I am stuck.”

“You're only seven feet off the ground.”

“I am scared. So is Mr. Kitty. His owner wants him back.”

Wash shifted on his feet before looking over at Maine. “Can you catch him if he falls down? You can borrow his super strength if you don't have enough.”

Maine gave him an offended look.

“Alright, alright, you have enough strength on your own. But can you?”

Maine considered it for a moment, then nodded.

“Alright, Caboose. If you jump down, Maine will catch you. He's pretty strong.”

“Stronger than me?”

“If he wants to be. And he won't arrest you. The law says that we only have to arrest vigilantes if they're caught in situations that should be handled by law enforcement. Rescuing a cat is entirely legal.”

Caboose tilted his head, leaning a bit more forward. “I am not going to be taken to the mean person box?”

“No, of course not.”

Caboose looked at Maine, then looked at Wash. “He's a scary man, Wash.”

“Maine's fine, Caboose. Are you going to come down now?”

“...I am not Caboose.”

Wash let out a frustrated sigh before saying, “Are you going to come down now, Blue Guy?”

Caboose frowned, kicking his feet a bit, before scooping up the cat. “Okay.” He looked down at the ground, swallowed nervously, and slid off the branch. “Catch me!”

Maine held out his arms, and Caboose landed in them with a thwump. Strong as Maine was, he had to bend his knees slightly to withstand the force of Caboose landing on him. After a moment to collect himself, Maine placed Caboose gently on the ground.

The cat immediately jumped out of his arms, running off to a nearby apartment. Caboose beamed at Wash. “I rescued a kitty, Wash! I'm a vigil ant now!”

“...Yes, very nice.” No. No, it was not very nice.

Caboose looked at Maine, tilting his head up slightly so he could look Maine in the face. “...Wow, you are really tall. Thank you, giant man.”

Maine grunted in response.

After thanking Maine profusely for his help, Wash and Caboose started to walk home. Wash examined the jumbled outfit Caboose was wearing, taking in the boxer shorts, the mittens and the plastic mask, before saying, “Were you really trying to be a vigilante?”

“Yes. But it was meant to be a secret.”

“How long were you up that tree?”

“It had not been dark for long.”

Wash sighed before wrapping one arm around Caboose in an awkward hug. “Dammit, Caboose, you had me worried.” Caboose scooped him up in a tight bear hug in response, as per the norm. Wash just patted him on the back and tried not to suffocate as he did so.

“I am sorry.”

“Caboose... vigilantes are criminals. I know you want to fight crime, and I know you don't like the Mother of Invention, but you can't be a vigilante.”

“What about Mum and Dad?”

“Do you really want to be like them?” Wash muttered derisively. He wasn't sure if Caboose had really had the intelligence to understand their parents that well. Their parents had been well-known superheroes back in the day, but they'd had their problems.

“...No. But I want to fight crime! Like T—like the blue man.”

Wash turned to face Caboose, eyes narrowed. “What blue man?”

“...Secret. He said I am not allowed to tell you. But he was nice. He dressed like a ninja and his powers made my hands tingle. He said he had x-ray vision, too!”

The description sounded vaguely familiar. There were a number of vigilantes around the city, and occasionally Wash spied them before they made themselves scarce.

“What'd he tell you? Where'd you see this man, Caboose?”

Wash was going to chase that fucker down.

 

* * *

 

_Yellow_

 

Just as it was common to see 'Teal Handsomeness' jumping over the rooftops in the evening, so was it common to see 'Bizarre Yellow' walking around in the early hours of the morning. However, she was much less dramatic about it. There was really nothing dramatic about what some would call the 'walk of shame.' Although Sister herself would call it the 'walk of just-had-the-best-night-ever-took-three-dicks-and-did-a-keg-flip-so-fuck-you-I-rock.'

She stifled a yawn and adjusted the domino mask on her face, glad that she'd remembered to keep it on this time. She checked herself over to make sure everything was there. Corset? Check. Underwear? Boots? Check. She'd lost her garter, and her stockings were falling down as a result. Oh well, that's not essential, even if Donut would complain about her losing parts of her outfit. She still looked stylin', even if her hair was all rumpled. Badge of pride of a good night, is all. Better than the 'got punched in the face' badge of pride.

She always went partying in her superhero outfit. Technically, she was still underneath the legal drinking age. Which was total bullshit—if she's legal to drink in one country she should be legal to drink in all of them—so hence her superhero persona. No-one could ask for her ID that way.

“Are you over 21?”

“I'm a superhero.”

“That doesn't answer my—“

“KEG FLIP!”

Now, if she could remember the way back to her dormitory everything would be fantastic. She squinted at the nearest street sign. Her eyes were still too blurry to let her read. Oh well, if she kept walking she'd eventually find her way.

As she walked she saw a large, grey blur in the distance. The shade was too dark for it to be Tucker, and he'd still be asleep at this time anyway. As she got closer, the grey blur turned towards her.

“Missus Yellow! Have you seen this dog? I am helping!”

The blur shoved a poster in her face, yelling at the top of his lungs. Sister clapped her hands over her ears.

“Stop yelling at me! Some of us are hungover, uh... grey... guy.”

“I am not Grey Guy! I am Blue Guy! I am a vigil ant! Don't tell Washingtub!”

“Washingtub... oh, Tu—Teal Handsomeness mentioned that guy. The blond cop or something always patrolling downtown? He's pretty hot.” Sister had only ever seen him at a distance, but she could tell fineness from that far away.

“No. Wash is not in an oven!” Grey—no, Blue Guy rebuked her. He turned his head a little, frowning. “...The dog is this way. Here, boy! Here, doggie!”

Blue Guy wandered off, and after a moment of pondering Sister followed. It was important to know any superheroes in the area—which she supposed was what this dude meant by 'vigil ant'—and, more importantly, if this guy knew Washington maybe he could get his phone number for her.

She followed him for a block, watching him coo loudly, until they turned a corner and saw the dog scratching himself and rolling about in the middle of an empty road. Blue Guy brightened up.

“Doggie! Here, boy! Come here!” He crouched down and continued to make noises, but the dog ignored him in favor of chasing its own tail.

That might have continued for ages, had a car not sped around the corner. Blue Guy yelped.

“Oh no, the doggie!” He ran onto the road to pick up the dog. At the same time, the driver hit the breaks.

“Shit, look out!” Sister yelled after him. She covered her eyes afterwards, because watching a dude get splattered all over the road was the worst mood killer. She heard the skidding and a clunking sound, followed by silence. She opened one eye.

Blue Guy was crouching in front of the dog with one hand out. That hand had stopped the car, though not without leaving a huge dent in the engine. The dog, oblivious to its near-destruction, trotted off the road to go sniff at some nearby garbage bins.

The driver climbed out of the car, yelling furiously. “What the fuck were you doing? How the fuck did you do that? Jesus fucking Christ, my car!”

Sister had heard this tirade before. It usually led into demands for insurance information. She hurried over.

“Hey, calm down.”

“I'll calm down once he tells me how he's going to pay for the huge-ass dent in my car,” he snapped. Sister frowned back.

“You should calm down.” As she said it, she squinted slightly and pushed with her mind. The man, mouth open to yell something else, immediately quieted. He looked at the dent in his car, then back at Blue Guy.

“I suppose it's not that bad. But I want your insurance—“

“You accidentally dented the car yourself. He wasn't even on the road,” Sister said lightly, mentally pushing again. The man's forehead creased a little for a moment, but then he scratched his head and gave a sheepish smile.

“Guess I wasn't paying enough attention to the road. Sorry for the trouble!”

“Oh, it's no trouble. Bye!” Sister said, at the same time grabbing Blue Guy by his arm and guiding him off the road. Blue Guy immediately headed for where the dog was and scooped him up.

“I found the doggie,” he said proudly, the car accident completely forgotten.

“You sure did! Also, you stopped it from getting splattered. How much do you lift, because damn,” Sister said.

“Uh... I lift a lot of heavy things. People always ask me to help them move.”

“...Have you ever thought about joining a superhero team?”

“Oh my god, can I?”

“Sure. Super strength is helpful. I just have to talk Teal Handsomeness into it.” Super strength and possible access to blond cop's phone number? What wasn't to like?

“Tucker? I know him. He made lights.”

“That's the guy. Come on, we'll return that dog, then stop at that cafe with the super greasy pancakes. I need my hangover food. Especially with how loud that crash was.”

“Oh, I love pancakes. Can I have some pancakes?”

“Sure!”

“...You are a nice lady, Miss Kit-Kat.”

Tucker never agreed to the recruitment of 'that idiot from the apartment building,' but nonetheless that was the day that Blue Team actually gained enough blue for the name to be accurate.


End file.
